Tomione Drabble and Prompt Collection
by ibuzoo
Summary: These are prompts and asks from my tumblr account, feel free to leave a prompt aswell.
1. Leave a drabble

This is a collection of drabbles from several asks and prompts on tumblr.

Some are really short, others can be a bit longer.

You can always leave me a prompt on: ibuzoo . tumblr . com


	2. My pressure on your hips

**My pressure on your hips (sinking my fingertips into every inch of you)**

**Prompt:** left handed Tom

**Rating:** T

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 267

**A/N: **/

* * *

They have five minutes that's all the time they can spare, five minutes until they need to part ways and be who they are out in Hogwarts' aisles, the heir of Slytherin and the heart of Gryffindor.

'We need to go,' she says, licks and tastes at Tom's bottom lip his teeth scratching and biting and sucking deeper, on her skin, on her neck, scraping over the thin layer of skin and leaving red marks and there's nothing tender in it, not this time but she repeats, tugs at his dark hair, speaks, 'we need to go,you need to go.' But Tom doesn't stop just grins against the hollow of her neck and he presses his fingers in her side, _(left hand, left hand, she thinks, why didn't i notice before?)_ probably leaving marks on her hips and curve and flesh, a memento for his presence, his possession and Hermione wants him gone, wants to push away _(her hands won't leave him though, tug him closer, warms up her own skin)_. Tom's scent is overwhelming and she can pick the ingredients to pieces by now, the aftershave, the shower gel, the lingering smell of sea salt and white tea and lime that's magically clinging to his body and every pore.

_(what does it say about her that she knows that, what does it say about them?)_

She feels his hands digging deeper into her delicate skin, she close her eyes and breaths.

_(when she enters the DADA classroom twenty minutes later, lips red and kiss swollen, hair messier than usual, nobody comments on it, nobody dares)_


	3. I feel it in my veins, skin, bones

**I feel it in my veins, skin, bones (that i'm losing you, me)**

**Prompt: **tattoos and kisses; bruises

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 129

**A/N: **/

* * *

"Mine", Tom presses, butchers her delicate skin with his lips and teeth, scratches over rosy pink to leave dark red marks, stains in shapes of rose petals and she feels them burn like the first snow, pure and waiting for the scrape of his fingers to ruin her skin, his mouth raw as the cold winter moon.

_(in truth, she likes the pain)_

"Yours", Hermione breathes, shudders when she feels his lips clawing and rasping at her neck, and her shoulders to leave tattoos and souvenirs in shapes of rose petals she treasures and he feels his blood and bones longing for her as red as Eve's apple, a passion that lingers underneath, her body a temple as hot as the burning summer sun.

_(she knows, she deserves it)_


	4. My thoughts they've slipped away

**My thoughts they've slipped away (my words are leaving me)**

**Prompt:** 5+1; writing letters

**Rating:** T

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 303

**A/N: **/

* * *

_(She writes him, started it months ago when he first stayed over, after late night discussions and kisses that tasted of cinnamon and lime and the cheap Chinese food they had delivered. She writes little notes and leaves them at the first page of the book he's reading currently, knows that it won't last long because he reads with the rapidness of a machine gun, devouring the novels to their core and she knows that her little notes are mere glimpses he treasures when morning there are pieces and thoughts she can't write down but reading between the lines was something he mastered from the start.)_

* * *

**1.**

I can't believe you didn't try and talk to me after yesterday's fight. You didn't even left a message.

_(I miss you so much I can't breathe)_

* * *

**2.**

I miss waking up next to you when you stay over. I miss the way you smell and drench my sheets. I miss your hands curling around my hair, my face, my skin. The way you grumble at me for leaving half-empty mugs everywhere or stealing your book so you can't find where you stopped hours ago. The way your eyes move when reading, following the sentences and words.

_(The way you smile even if it's a cruel one)_

* * *

**3.**

Abraxas called to let me know that you'd got the book i gave him. He seems to think we're over our fight.

Are we? I want to be.

I can't breathe. I can't send you the letters I want to send.

_(I miss you like oxygen)_

* * *

**4\. **

It has been days. You weren't supposed to go.

_(will you come back?)_

* * *

**5.**

Do you still love me?

_(I don't want you to)_

* * *

**+1**

12:35 p.m, Starbucks, Belvedere Rd.

_(I don't like myself without you)_


	5. Everything's made to be broken

**Everything's made to be broken (i just want you to know who i am)**

**Prompt: **something sad

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 775

**A/N: **/

* * *

_'You have reached the voicemail of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Leave a message if you must insist and i'll get back to you some time this decade. If it's an urgent message you should mention it, chances may be high that i'll get back to you faster.' _

I cancel the call before your voicemail starts recording again, no need for more minutes of silence on your answering machine, broken only by my trembling breathing. There's silence in the room but the beating of my heart, tries desperately to drum and claw at my ribcage and i can feel blood rushing in my head, my veins, the only witness of the scars cut deep in myself.

* * *

_{i wish this was the story of how i became bitter}_

* * *

I press redial and hold the phone up to my ear again.

_'You have reached the voicemail of Tom Marvolo Riddle.'_

Your voice is so alive, a little amused and sarcastic, i remember you smirking at me while you recorded this as though actually having a personal greeting on your voicemail was beneath you, as if you were taunting me and the world. I remember your mouth curling slightly up, your eyes flickering with something dark, something that drew me in so long ago.

It's getting harder to breath.

* * *

_{i wish this was the story of how i became evil}_

* * *

_'Leave a message if you must insist and i'll get back to you some time this decade.'_

Without you, Riddle Manor is too starving, too dark, too silent. There are too many spaces where you should be, echoes of your presence in your favourite chair near the chimney, the library,can't bring myself to enter it without you. I can't sleep in the bed anymore, your sheets long cold and it's hard to breath in the faint scent of your aftershave. I can feel your fingers trailing down my spine, when the moon rises high, feel warmth rushing over my frame until i remember that your hands don't carry the heat of the living anymore.

* * *

_{i wish this was the story of how i became anaesthetic}_

* * *

_'If it's an urgent message you should mention it, chances may be high that i'll get back to you faster.'_

I hang up the phone before it starts recording again.

It's been two weeks since you died.

I drift through the house, the kitchen shouldn't be empty at half past six in the morning. You should be here and i can almost touch the ghost of your lingering face, coffee in hand and your hip cocked against the island bench, ready to go to work while you think about creating impossible things in your head, thesis and brilliant masterpieces of written words and megalomaniac ideas of the future.

All gods who receive hommage are cruel.

* * *

_{instead it's the story of how i cared so much that it hurts}_

* * *

I can't sleep anymore, your shirt i'm wearing to bed clings to my body from the cold sweat that drenches me as soon as the night crawls in. When I close my eyes all I see is the hole in your body, a gaping wound at your neck and chest and red, red everywhere, blood bubbling from your lips when i try to kiss you between sobs and tears and desperate cries, blood on my hands while i try to press down on your shredded skin, blood on your perfect pale frame, drenching your sallow flesh in different shades of pink and ruby.

I remember the light disappearing too quickly from your eyes.

* * *

_{it still hurts}_

* * *

I can hear your last word every time there's silence, hear the crackle and bubbling, the swallowing and gulping and breathing and deadly rattling.

You were drowning in your lungs when you whispered my name.

_Hermione._

I dial your number again, because I can't stand to hear the echo of that voice in my mind.

* * *

_{it doesn't stop}_

* * *

_'You have reached the voicemail of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Leave a message if you must insist and i'll get back to you some time this decade. If it's an urgent message you should mention it, chances may be high that i'll get back to you faster.'_

* * *

**ooo**

_i wish this was the story of how i became bitter_

_i wish this was the story of how i became evil_

_i wish this was the story of how i became anaesthetic_

_instead it's the story of how i cared so much that it hurts _

_(it still hurts)_

_(it doesn't stop)_

**ooo**


	6. Stay with me

**Stay with me (don't disappear)**

**Prompt:** Little Black Submarines - The Black Keys

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 451

**A/N: **/

* * *

_(he knows how this will end)_

If he'd bother to count, he'd know this is the eighty fourth time she wakes up in his bed, hair a mess, eyes blown wide, marks of his teeth covering her body, possessively, primal and they're increasing, cover her pelvis and spine, draw up to the place just behind her ear, her neck, the little spot of flesh that tickles her when his teeth drag over it, her pulse vibrating right under them, strong, fierce, beating just for him.

_(he knows how this will end)_

Their limbs are still tangled up in sheets, expensive white, hotel linens covering their lower bodies, shielding them from the cold that settles on sweat covered skin but it doesn't make it any less obscene, any less perverse the moment she gets up from the bed, out of his arms, and gathers her clothes once more, the floating navy dress that's missing a button since he ripped it off mere minutes ago_ (accidentally of course) _and she presses out, desperate, her voice staggering, breaking, „We can't do this anymore."

He doesn't answer, doesn't bother, doesn't move when she goes.

_(he knows how this will end)_

It lasts for a week, then she's back, bolts out of her common almost non-existent marriage with the obnoxious redhead, meets him at his favourite hotel, digs her nails too deep into his back, leaves traces of her lips and tongue on his collarbone, sucks at the skin like a thirst and he lets her, his eyes flashing dangerously, the fear of this being the last time clinging to his bones and it's horrible in many ways because his mind knows what the hole in his chest doesn't; there'll always be a next time, and a time after that, and a time after that. His fingers rip at the white cotton blouse, yank at her hair and she thanks him with scratching fingernails over his chest, his abdomen, his teeth biting at the spot right behind her ear where the reminder of their last time nearly fades, urges her backwards until their spines hit the mattress.

_(he knows how this will end)_

If he'd bother to count, he'd know this is the eighty fifth time she wakes up beside him, hair a mess, eyes blown wide, marks of his teeth covering her body, possessively, primal. She gets up from the bed, out of his arms, gathers her clothes once more, the white satin blouse which is missing another button and the dark denim jeans, and she presses out, desperate, her voice staggering, breaking, „We can't do this anymore."

He doesn't answer, doesn't bother, doesn't move when she goes.

_(he knows how this will end)_


	7. Start a war

**Start a war (I just wanted you to let me in)**

**Prompt:** Gone Wind

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 210

**A/N: **/

* * *

Their love is like the fall of Rome, marble, white pillars and dusty roads, black skies and chariots in the streets, buildings as tall as gods, needles scraping the sky, raw flames burning bright in their veins, each kiss like gladiator fights, biting, clawing, scratching, licking and they collapse into each other like the pieces of the Parthenon, it's in their lips, it's in their eyes.

She thinks she should have known, thinking herself oh so smart, that it was doomed, maybe not from the start, but definitely from somewhere around the middle when they were crashing headfirst into this like summer storms, clashing and whirling around each other, reflecting on the inside of each other's eyelids, bright in technicolor and it makes their soul age and their blood sing.

His hands leave burning circles on her skin, reminders of a supernova and there are twenty four ribs protecting her heart from damage and he knows precisely each location of the gaps in between, presses fingertips in to leave little messages, hymns her body sings each time he leaves her behind when morning comes, like the cold, bitter winter, longing, gutted, spent on cold sheets.

_(he's a cyclone that rages and she's windburned, waiting for summer rain and hurricane kisses)_


	8. Breathed so deep

**Breathed so deep (I thought I'd drown)**

**Prompt:** it is almost imperceptible (eyes, lips, gaze, feel, heart, touch)

**Rating:** T

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 327

**A/N: **/

* * *

It was winter when I first spotted you with this incredulous blue shred of a scarf you were wearing during mild temperatures and I didn't know whether I should believe the technicolor reproduction of your perfection that reflected in my reading glasses or if my mind was playing a nasty prank on me. Fortunately your gaze was jabbing right back, like pointed daggers, lethal, leaving a copper taste on my tongue while a tingling sensation started to burn in my mouth, down on my throat in the middle of my thorax to my heart, that useless corporal mechanism, a dark hole in the middle of my chest which remained bright ablaze and likewise frozen.

It's sort of pathetic, almost a paltry endeavour how this feeling paralysed me in my seat, Malfoy's petty conversation completely forgotten, voices faded out and my focus was split between your appearance and the ache that flashed through my body the moment you took the seat right before me, your hand brushing a millimetre of mine which felt like stitches, a hornet's nest on my skin. A touch far too small to feel at all, but the pain rested, feasted on my confusion and rage about a girl so plain, so utterly common that I could taste on my lips, a heavy flavour that spread in my mouth, far too sweet for my liking and my eyes watched how you wet yours, peeks out of honey brown eyes to mine, my taste on your lips, my lips which became yours, yours which became mine and I pressed mine into a thin line, pressed them until they became pale and painful but I couldn't stop, your taste still lingering in the air around us, still omnipresent singing for me.

No one seemed to understand what happened in that single moment to both of us, no one cared, it was almost imperceptible and I was determined to never let you slip away from me again.


	9. It burns

**It burns (doesn't mean you're gonna die)**

**Prompt:** Love Song for a Vampire - Karliene Reynolds

**Rating:** T

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 179

**A/N: **/

* * *

She literally burned out before she met him and the moment he sticks his fingers into her ashes, she feels her heart pumping again, filling her system with a venom so pure and red _(or is it green?)_, pestilent breath pouring into her lungs to let her live again, breathe again, feel again.

Her heart is not a glass menagerie, it hurts but it will never shatter completely and he collects the broken shards one by one, throws them away to fill the hole with pieces of himself, calls them Lovebites and Horcrux and it's the same, really, the biting pain of something living, something cruel and divine fusing her heartstrings together once more.

He lights her up in fire to admire the colour of the flames and she doesn't care, ignores the agony and reaches her hand out to feed him crystal tears and bleeding wrists, watches him drink the elixir of eternal youth he desires so much while his blood-smeared lips ghost over her skin, whispering her name like a mantra, again, and again, and again.


	10. A good excuse

**A good excuse (to be a bad influence)**

**Prompt:** Addicted - Saving Abel

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 357

**A/N: **/

* * *

It's the moment when Tom's fingers bury in the small of her back, leave marks on marble skin that blossom red and blue and violet, reminders of a passion she shouldn't feel at all, while her mind screams fiercely, desperate, violently that she should run, should have run a long time ago in the moment his grey eyes were mere lights in the shadows of dark streets.

It's the moment her conscience shuts down, her memories fade and he's omnipresent in her mind and her legs are castle walls and her ribs are fortresses and his fingers dance along her most sensitive skin, part her legs and lips and she bares herself for him, coils on heated sheets while her hands dig in the satin fabric, tear at it the moment his breath ghosts over hot, wet skin.

It's the moment his tongue licks, really sleeks, feasts on her skin, on her flesh and his teeth drag over her thighs, bite down, leave fresh red marks bright against white and she bites her lips, wrecks the thin layer and a minute later there's blood on her teeth, on her tongue and Tom's lips on her own, his taste, his body, him, him, him.

It's the moment he pushes into her with a force and a frantic lust that makes her head spin, her eyes roll backwards and her legs wrap around his waist and she pushes him deeper, harder, faster, and it feels like he tears away her skin, gnaws at her bones, sets her soul aflame and maybe there's something evil in his veins but she doesn't care because it reflects in her blood just the same.

It's the moment she comes, his name on her lips, his body tense, strained and his voice is a song in her ears, a lullaby, a prayer that lifts her up, pushes her further, further while her climax opens her eyes and she sees stars and galaxies while she kisses his lips which taste like the sun and the moon and eternity at once.

It's the moment her addiction is finally sated, just mere seconds, before it starts anew.


	11. Under haunted skies

**Under haunted skies (I see you)**

**Prompt:** Haunted

**Rating:** T

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 335

**A/N: **/

* * *

They're not meant to be together, time will always be against them.

There are rose gardens blossoming under her skin and she's sweating out peonies, the sweetest perfume in her pores, thorns coiling around her veins, stems in her throat choking her in her sleep while she bleeds red and it feels good, far too perfect to see Gryffindor's pride pouring out of her, out of her skin, out of her bones.

_(this is her house but it isn't her home) _

There are snakes sliding under his skin and he's speaking lies as his mother-tongue, his voice a vertiginous lull on his words, piercing silver reflecting behind the grey storms of his eyes, venom in his blood choking him in his sleep while he breathes green and it feels good, far too perfect to see Slytherin's vanity pouring out of him, out of his skin, out of his bones.

_(this is his house but it isn't his home)_

He's a ghost in her dreams, a nightmare, an incubus, Morpheus and Hypnos at once and his marbled face haunts her at night, peels her layers away like rose petals, ghosts at her skin, feeds her passion with little touches that linger far too often, with bites at her most intimate place, sucks on wet flesh that tastes like ambrosia, drinks the copper taste of her blood like the pulp of golden apples.

She's a ghost in his dreams, an utopia, a succubus while her fiery brown hair radiates like the sun around her face, a lioness with predatory eyes that glisten like dark blood drops in the night, brown, red, maroon, while she peels his layers away like snakeskin, ghosts at his skin, feeds his passion with little nibbles on delicate areas, bites at the flesh of his pelvis, sucks on his lips that taste like ambrosia, drinks the metal taste of his blood like water fresh from the fountain of the youth.

They're not meant to be together, time will always be against them.


	12. My downfall

**My downfall (you're my muse)**

**Prompt:** Bubblegum Electric, bruised knees, super

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 419

**A/N: **/

* * *

She's sitting in blinding daylight in a room that's far too dusty and narrow at the same time, not wearing anything other than a thin white men's button down with sleeves rolled up and paint stains on her thighs, sun rays illuminate her brown hair and play with the colours of the spectrum while her lungs struggle to breathe. She's a whirlwind at the centre of his desire, a girl never bound by the usual laws while she scratches with hands and fingers and nails over her canvases, draws portraits and landscapes of long forgotten days or never approaching futures, paints with blood and soul and heart until creativity pours out of her, stuffs it back and starts anew.

He's a storyteller, a poet, writes about bestial love that creeps under skins, sadistic love stories that consume flesh and blood, his words are the purest and most alluring lies while he drops lines about wild brown hair falling over a colour stained front, about brown eyes chasing him through days and nights, through streets and cities away, far away from home.

She saw him in her dreams before they even met and she roared through his veins like pigments inked onto his bones, never letting him breathe, no space, mind flashing, screaming, clawing at him, urging him forward to finally find her while he wraps himself in darkness, hides in black shadows and wears obscurity as a mask to watch her from afar.

It feels suspiciously easy to fall into her contradictory existence and he watches her sketching with blood under her fingernails and on her palms, biting colour stains of sapphire blue and bubblegum electric on her rosy cheeks, charcoal on her chin and neck, and the dark ruby red smears over the linen with surprising facility, sketches his perfect nose, high cheekbones and a machiavellian smile which is a hundred times crueler but a thousand times more clever.

Her hands leave smudges on the grand windows when he fucks her raw and forcefully, her voice a prayer each time his name echoes in the room, her knees scraping, rasping over the wooden windowsill which leave bruises on her paint stained skin, pigments and oils that bleed into his shirt and flesh while his teeth bite down on her neck, tear at it to draw marks with her blood while he pumps the venomous ink into her system to brand her as his own.

Every poem, every artwork that ends in tragedy is the plot of their lives.


	13. That look in your eyes

**That look in your eyes (is so familiar)**

**Prompt: **Awkward

**Rating:** T

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 488

**A/N: **/

* * *

„Well, well. What a glittering assemblage, King Albus," the man drawled with a honey thick voice, fluent, a beautiful lull that echoed from the hollow walls of Hogwarts' Castle with every step he took toward the throne, the mob parted before the obscurity and hazard he was radiating in waves.

He was clothed in the night, a black silken cloak wheedled his slender body that was equally clad in dark leather, form fitting, a mirror of the hole in his chest, the darkness that filled him. The dark wizard was young, his features sharp, cheekbones high and skin marble white, a face with a straight nose and beautiful full lips, eyebrows to kill for with storm-grey eyes reflecting cruelty at its finest.

A snake was coiling around his feet, winded itself on the dark sceptre the man was carrying and the royal couple was tensing up on their thrones when he took the little stairs leading up to the golden, opulent cradle. His voice spoke again in the same charming manner, a dangerous lilt to his voice, „Royalty, nobility, gentry, and, how quaint, even the rabble."

His eyes ghosting around the room, the dozens of guests of higher status and rank, the members of the royal Horse Guards, the Order of the Phoenix as they called themselves, silly little canaries, and rested finally on three adult men, wand drawn out, protecting the cradle and the infant with their lives. 'Shapeshifters. Stag, Deer, Wolf. Pathetic', he thought, ripping his eyes back to Albus, whose lips were pressed into a thin line, his composure the same as always but a fire was raging behind those blue eyes and it made the dark wizard smirk, amused.

„I must say," he started once more and his hand stroke absently over the cold snaky skin of his beastly company, „I was really quite offended that I didn't receive an invitation."

"You're not welcome here, Tom," the king pressed out between his teeth.

Surprised, the man's eyes flew up, the ferocious shimmer intensifying and suddenly he was laughing, bursting in a maniac conniption, the pitch of his voice resonating cruel and vicious from the halls. It sent shivers down the spine of every guest, even the guards on the little cradle felt fear creeping up their skin, an invisible terror covering them.

The wizard was still chuckling when he found his composure back, his voice a blurring to a hiss, "Oh dear, what an awkward situation."

_(later, he would cast these worthless guards down and away from the cradle, would see the infant, the girl, the monster for the first time and ask himself why his ribcage seemed to burst, why the pathetic piece of muscles and blood in his thorax was beating faster the moment brown eyes were rested on his, and it would drive him mad, his temper leaving an outrageous curse which he'd desperately try to break some years later)_


	14. Don't ever think about death

**Don't ever think about death (it's alright if you do)**

**Prompt: **Agelast - A person who never laughs

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 560

**A/N: **/

* * *

They could sit in this room forever, trying to outstare each other, the man before her as charming as he was cruel with dark hair and alabaster skin, a nose perfect and straight with grey storms raging in his eyes, burn her to the ground, leave ashes on dirty tiles.

„You should smile", he suggests, a lick of maniac reverberating in his voice, steady, dark, tenor, and she feels a shudder on her spine, cold sweat on her neck that whispers in her ears, you're afraid, you're frightened, you're terrified.

His hands are handcuffed behind his back, his body rigid, unmoving on the chair before her, legs crossed but he keeps his balance, his eyes never leaving hers and he snorts, distorts his face in the process, hisses out, „Nobody knows how to laugh these days. The world would be a lot prettier if everyone smiled, don't you think?"

„Do you?", she spits back immediately, regrets it a second later and his eyes reflect the horror of his victims, the screams of terror, and she feels her stomach flip, tastes the biting flavour of bile on her tongue while she presses her mouth in a line, no twitches at the corners and she asks herself how such a cruel human being can sit and look like an angel, wield his handsome face like the shield that suits his designer clothes, his high-fashion shoes.

He doesn't smile, doesn't even smirk, just stares at her with narrowed eyes, eyebrows knitting together, and the light flickers in the dim room, casts callous shadows over them and hides them from each other, seconds for seconds for seconds. One minute he's on the other side of the room, staring at her through the darkness, through the flicker of light, his eyes an omnipresent threat in the back of her mind, dark again, light, dark, scratching of a chair, clothes rustling, hasty steps of italian leather and the next minute he's right in front of her, his face mere millimetres from hers, hand snatching her chin, the other coiling around her arms, handcuffs around her wrists, back against the wall and she's fighting, buckling, but his body presses against hers, corners her with an adamant ease.

The light flickers on again and her eyes stare right at his collarbone, a slender piece of skin flashing between the collar of his dark shirt. He pushes her chin up, an iron grip around her flesh, her eyes proud on his but her anguish makes her tremble, metal on her cheek, sharp, solid, cold, the blade pressing deep.

He doesn't cut her, not yet.

The knife moves in rhythm with his slender fingers which embrace the shaft carefully, the tip tracing the outline of her lips, resting at the corner of her mouth, carving meticulously into it, drawing blood in the process, a drop runs down the blade as he leans down, his breath ghosting over her lips, goosebumps on her skin and his tongue sticks out, licks the blade clean, smears the red over his teeth, demonising himself in the process.

_(he remembers the moment he first cut through human meat, with hands still trembling and a potato peeler that felt wrong in his small fingers, remembers days long past, his insecurity long gone)_

He cuts in her flesh.

She will smile.

Everyone will, in the end.


	15. Glory and Gore

**Glory and Gore (go hand in hand)**

**Prompt:** Never have I ever

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 1078

**A/N: **/

* * *

Tom could see the skepticism reflected in her eyes the moment they stepped over the threshold of the Malfoy house, the dawning realization behind those dark brown orbs which held far too much intelligence, the same brilliance as his own but it was shielded by her blind ignorance for it.

Perhaps it was some kind of self protection to cut out any indications and hints which have been dropped so far, perhaps her moral conscience shut off as soon as he was involved and it drove him wild because he needed her to know, needed her to see, to understand.

All these leads and innuendos were right before her eyes and he refused to believe for one second that she didn't figure it out already, the suspicious facts that fit together all too well, all the times he interrupted a conversation about their business as soon as she stepped into the room, her accusitive glance, daring, wondering, distrustfulness that he stopped with a kiss, hard, passionate. But no words have ever left her lips, no cross examination when they were alone.

It's frustrating to observe her act in her usual almost light-hearted manner, handing Abraxas a carefully wrapped present for reaching his twentieth year of age and sitting down on the couch, waiting for him to join her. It's frustrating to see Rabastan's glance that nearly mocks him, taunts him (does she still not know?), Bellatrix bringing a salver full with little petit fours and hors d'oeuvre, small masterpieces of the finest culinary creations, her dress the hottest couture in a red that matches her lipstick, Rosier in his usual dandy manner, hair slicked back taking shot after shot at the bar so Abraxas could serve them on another tray, placing them neatly on the table in the middle of all of them, in civilised little glasses with olives, and Tom casted a glance over them, all of them, but rested once more on Hermione.

There had always been this certain kind of air around them, a civilised vein that most of people in their age pathetically lacked (for example the obnoxious reddish fox of an ex Hermione used to date, a footballer with minor brain and major muscles who would rather celebrate his birthdays by boozing than the way they choose to). They were radiating a sense of extravagance, high education, high flyers, an exclusivity on their own and this subtle note of danger, of darkness that resonated in all of them, poured through his system like the blood in his veins and clearly she could never have been so blind as to ignore his true nature for weeks, even months.

He wouldn't dare call them friends, his pride would also not allow him to voice the word family, followers felt wrong too because they all had a purpose, a task and she was part of it now even though she meant so much more, meant everything to him and he thought she'd already know by now, she needed to. She didn't comment on it though, permitted him to pull his strings further, allowed him to play his cruel game longer and what did it say about him, that he waited for her concession, her acquiescence to start the next step, the next plan?

There was something else mingling behind her assumptions, confusion and doubt reflected in those brown eyes and he felt his patience running thin, about to run out when Abraxas asked for a round of this childish party game, a trivial diversion far beneath him and he wanted to snap, to spit. However he stopped himself just short, decided in his utter mercy that they could have some hours of fun which were reserved for the mob alone and leaned back, his eyes rested on Hermione, still thinking about a way to change his plans, to push her out of her comfort zone.

It felt a lot like masochism, like premeditated murder when Hermione took the first glass, her hands grasping it softly and she breathed deep, her eyes on his when she said, voice calm and honest, „Never have I ever killed someone."

His head started to spin and he stopped, gnashed his teeth, felt the way the air around them intensified, felt the way the others tensed up in the room, their eyes on his back like knives digging through the thin layer of the shirt he was wearing and Hermione sat right before him, eyes wide, resolute, looking like a deer with fear showing in her eyes and she was right to fear them, to feel terrified by him, but she understood, waited for him, for it.

This whole dance has gone on for far too long now and he needed to put an end to it, a final blow to seal the deal, so he leaned forward, gracefully, took a glass off the tray, set it to his lips, downed it in a single movement, eyes never leaving hers and no one of the others seemed able to speak anymore, no one seemed to breathe and he waited, eyes on hers, his temper beating in a constant rhythm in his veins.

He never participated on such negligible drinking games before but he couldn't allow her to leave this house without knowing the truth about him, about them, about her future self, and one by one the others took their shots and she watched with fascination, with anticipation while a cruel shimmer reflected in his eyes.

Realisation dawned in her the moment she perceived that this wasn't a joke, that their actions were pure venom, the truth that cut through her utterly good conscious and surprisingly she didn't blink, looked back at him and her eyes shone bright like the sun breaking through the thicket in autumn, when she leaned forward, ghosting over his lips and his hand automatically gripped her waist, steadied her when she whispered, calm and honest, „I knew."

She kissed the last drop of the burning liquor off his lips, softly, merely grazing him, before leaning back, the same look in her eyes and he finally caught what her eyes meant all along, the confusion, the inner struggle about loving a monster, a king, a god, opened his eyes and he saw the queen he always sensed right underneath her skin, the only person worth enough to understand, to love him.

It feels like permission.

It feels like a beginning.

But mostly, it feels like absolution.


	16. That feeling

**That feeling (rushing trough my veins again)**

**Prompt:** Hannibal AU

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 964

**A/N: **/

* * *

"Did you enjoy the meal, Mrs. Granger?", he asks casually while his slender hands are busy grabbing plates and cutlery from the table, piling them up neatly on the white porcelain. He's utterly amazed that her plate is clean, almost licked, both pieces of meat devoured.

Interesting. I could swear she insisted that she didn't like too much meat.

„Yes Dr. Riddle, it was delicious, thank you. The filet was tender and pinpoint - what did you say was it again?"

„Lamb", he retorts immediately and retreats to his kitchen, his sanctuary which was open and modern made out of grey stone and stainless steel, where he puts the plates in the sink and grabs the white chef apron which was neatly hung beside to put it around his waist, knotting the ropes in front of his abdomen.

„Thank you Mrs. Granger, I try hard to please my guests and comply with their every wish." He turns on the faucet and watches how the translucent water washes away the last traces of a perfect dark red gravy.

_She's right indeed, the victim had been really delicate, her meat tender when my knife cut right between her ribs. She didn't even put up a fight, silly little thing, and it was far too easy to separate the flesh from the bones. Students have this particular spicy flavour, succulent and luscious, worthy consideration for my next guests. I should make a mental note about this. _

He switches off the faucet again and devotes himself to the fridge, taking two additional dishes out of it to put them on the kitchen island right in front of him. She's watching his movements out of curious eyes but she keeps her distance, waits on the other side of the island while he takes the bain-marie out of the shelf, fires up his gas cooker and fills the under jar with water.

„Can I help you?", her voice is steady, curious but he cuts right in with his charm, flashes her a smile that never reaches his eyes while he starts to melt pieces of dark swiss chocolate in the upper jar.

„Thank you Mrs. Granger, but I'll just do a fast chocolate sauce for our dessert."

„So much effort?", she sounds sincerely surprised and his response is drawled, covers her doubts like honey.

„My dear, I do always put a lot of effort in every dish, for my guests as well as for myself," a smirk accompanying his words and it's cruel to watch a certain kind of dark flicker behind his eyes. „But I love to have guests over. Such good company and conversation, don't you agree?"

She gives an approving sound behind him and he starts to chop up the chilli, wields the knife as an instrument to put the hackled spice with different other tastes in the chocolate jar. The boiling water beneath had already heated up the upper boiler and the chocolate melts down to a thick, creamy consistence. He turns around once more and takes a little porcelain cruet out of the fridge, half filled with a viscous dark red liquid. The moment he approaches the stove Hermione speaks again, „Dr. Riddle you know that I can't stomach wine in my meals…"

He greets it with a smile, a small chuckle and a smirk, and he responds, clearly amused, „Be assured it's no wine Mrs. Granger. Just a drop of a secret home cooking recipe I discovered for myself some years ago. I bet you'll like it." He added a swallow to the chocolate jar, seasons it several times, creams the sauce up through constant stirring before he turns the flame off and the carafe away again.

_Discovered 5 years ago when I carved Regulus Black to pieces, canny little brat. Didn't want to waste his blood, really delicious by the way, a better consistency and a more mellow taste than the one I'm using now but well, you can't have everything in life, can you? It was a bonne bouche, nothing compared to the firework on my tongue when I prepared parts of his loins as a delicious roast venison with a perfect wild chasseur sauce. The blood really topped it off. _

Gracefully his slender fingers dress fresh strawberries around a perfect white sorbet resting on a dark brown cake base, shaved chocolate and zest garnishing the edge of the plate, drawing whirls and lines with the chocolate sauce, a matter of delicacy to find the right amount of garnish because too much and too less could ruin a masterpiece.

Hermione already took her place on the table once more and watches him copying his movements on the second plate before he brings them both to the table, his stance perfectly balanced when he deposits the plates right before her, says, „Baisé du sangue."

„Blood?", her voice is a pitch higher, her eyes alert and blown wide.

„God forbid no. It literally translates to ‚Kiss of Blood', but that's all the horror is about. It's a Transylvanian recipe, Jacques Pepin cooked it once for Sarkozy when he still held office in the french government. I hope you'll like it."

The smirk looks strangely dangerous on his features, a cruel hint she couldn't read yet, so she puts the thought aside, takes a bite of the masterpiece in front of her. He watches her out of eagle-eyes, a sharpness reflecting bright behind them while he studies each stir in her face, each muscular move but astonishingly, she looks up, expression clearly surprised and says delighted, „It's delicious."

He feels the smirk growing larger, takes a bite himself, lets it melt in his mouth, savours it.

_Interesting indeed. I think this evening will be the start of something epic, don't you agree, Mrs Granger?_


	17. 5 Prompts Exchange - War

**War**

**Challenge:** 5 Prompts Exchange

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 690

**A/N: **/

* * *

**o.**

They have bullets under their skin.

* * *

**i.**

Tom carries his Browning neatly tucked in a sewn holster on his jackets, out of the reach of curious eyes, hidden under the thin layer of fabric, a secret reminder that he's as deadly as he's handsome, as venomous as charming.

Hermione carries her Glock, small and handy, mounted flat to her back in a silken holster so it doesn't show, hidden from snooping glances and spying foes, a reminder that she's as much assassin as she is pretty, as sharp as she is kind.

When they kiss it's always like chewing on bullets, vicious, ravishing, passionate, bloodthirsty soldiers clawing and scratching their way up to the surface, leaving scars and bruises that heal when morning comes, teeth biting at lips and flesh, voices that moan from pain and lust and rapture and ecstasies.

None of them draws the gun.

None of them dares.

_(there's a hunger in the air that makes it hard to breath and they don't trust the other one, not a second)_

* * *

**ii.**

They met years ago in a little french bistro, rain pelting incessantly and people were searching for a place to hide, shoes leaving wet stains on the flags. Hermione was sitting by the far end of the room, a leather-bound book in her hand while a warm coffee blew off its steam in a calming manner, the smell of coffee beans in her nose.

Tom entered the coffee shop rushed and scampered, jacket soaked in rain, eyes sharp as an eagle, ordered an espresso and took the only available seat right in front of her, asking with an invisible charm and a little smirk that made her heart beat faster, "Is this seat taken?"

She saw the gun hidden on his side, he read her profession on her face and the deal was sealed, the future signed so she nodded, closed the book, smirked herself, "Please, have it."

They left the bistro side by side that day and moved in together a month later.

* * *

**iii.**

They're both wild, both brutal, both assassins on their own, conquerors, powerful and inevitable. He's a Death Eater, a soldier, power driven and money-mad, wears black leather and dark green fabrics to do the job, a bloodhound for a terrorist organisation. She's an assassin of the Phoenix, an order dedicated to kill the evil and help the innocent, wears red and golden and never kills without a purpose.

Their home is a grey area, a ceasefire where no one harms the other.

He hides his weapons in the cellar, calls it the chamber of secrets and she never found the entrance, not yet, but she won't stop looking while she hides her arms behind a wall in her clothes closet, calls it her armoury tower, always attentive to his observing eyes.

This is their home, their Utopia, Peace.

_(she loves the snake in the grass but she doesn't care, plays the game a little longer)_

* * *

**iv. **

All is fair in love and war.

* * *

**v.**

He throws her out a window on a job, third floor, right down in a side road, dirt and dust swirling up, clouding her sight and for a second the impact whips her lungs free of breath, a flash of pain paralysing her muscles and bones. She lies flat on her back, head on the street and her eyes dart around, her breath shakes while they pain increases with each passing second. She raises a second later, grabs her side with a hand while the other takes the Glock steady, aims at the window she just fell through, waiting for him to appear again, waiting, wishing, aiming, dark hair, pale face - she shoots.

_(she's already sitting in the living room when he arrives home hours later, book on her lap, glass of water in hand and he steps closer, bleeds through the fabric of his button-down, smooth shot right trough his shoulder, takes the glass of her hands to drink and she smirks, waits)_

* * *

**vi.**

They have bullets under their skin, bullets and gunpowder.

_(she kisses him and he bleeds on the carpet)_


	18. 5 Prompts Exchange - Ink

**Ink**

**Challenge:** 5 Prompts Exchange

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 542

**A/N: **/

* * *

**o.**

He bites her lips, licks the foreign taste, sucks it, smears it with his tongue, drunken love, sees the words dancing before his eyes, writes poetry with the tip of his fingertips, presses them in the hollow of her cheeks, presses until her eyes have a painful glimmer, listens to her panting with praying ears to the sounds of glass, crystal, diamonds.

He takes his pencil and writes.

_(you can talk cities into ashes, grapes into wine, humans into prayers and I stopped ripping pages out of books)_

* * *

**i.**

He bites her neck, leaves bruises in deep purple and violets blue, nibbles at her delicate skin for far too long until the flesh is red and sore, until it aches and her slender fingers press at his shoulders, try to push him off but he won't leave her, teeth dragging over it again and again, her voice a scream, a moan, a plea but he doesn't stop, won't stop until it bleeds, his mouth red smeared and bitter.

He takes his pen and writes.

_(learned to write poetry with calloused fingertips, to stain them with the blood of your veins)_

* * *

**ii.**

He bites her shoulders, ghosts with his breath over her pale skin, far too pale from the missing sun, from winter days and her flesh is warm against his lips, tender, tempting, so he bites down, teeth caressing, tearing, a familiar smack on his palate and he devours it, feasts on it, holds her still with iron fingers on her hips.

He takes his pen and writes.

_(while i beg you to come closer, closer)_

* * *

**iii.**

He bites her wrists, kneeling right before her feet, leaves kisses and stigmas on her pulse, taps his tongue in the rhythm of her beating heart, digs his teeth over the surface until copper floods his mouth again, sucks on the throbbing vein, drinks it, moans, rubs his fingers over the dark stains.

He takes his pen and writes.

_(found the truth on your bleeding tongue, I'll make your thighs into altars, I'll twist your bones into a star's shape to open your ribcage)_

* * *

**iv.**

He bites her thighs, feasts on the swollen flesh, suckles on it, licks, almost sleeks and her moans are a prayer on his ears, a hymn that he swallows like holy words, like a thirst, scratches over her delicate skin, pinches, tweaks until thick red drops rest on his tongue, smears them up to her sensitive spot and buries his mouth deep on her.

He takes his pen and writes.

_(excise your heart to run my ink-stained fingers over your prussian blue arteries, leftover blood stains that don't wash out)_

* * *

**v.**

She bites his lips, digs her fingers on his scalp, tears at dark strains almost painfully, tugs, rips, yanks, wrenches his head to bite harder, deeper, draws blood between them, smears it on his chin, his cheeks, drives him wild, drives herself mad, rides on his lap, presses her chest to his own, his fingers digging holes on her shoulders, closer, closer, so much closer until nothing fits in between, their breaths raspy, panting.

She takes her pen and writes.

_(when i looked for synonyms of your name, I could only find blood, blood, blood - and ink)_


	19. 5 Prompts Exchange - Blasphemy

**Blasphemy**

**Challenge:** 5 Prompts Exchange

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 520

**A/N: **/

* * *

**o.**

She calls him Voldemort, as soon as someone else is in the room, someone like Harry or Ron or even Dumbledore because that's the name they're using, the anagram he gave himself, a pitiful attempt to hide his muggle ancestry, his roots, but her mind calls him something else, repeats his three letters in bright capitals, screams them right in her face and she winces, presses her teeth on the thin layer of skin on her lips until she draws blood, tastes the copper on her tongue, smears it in her cheeks, devours it, dwells on it, Tom, Tom, Tom.

_(it's blasphemous, isn't it?)_

* * *

**i.**

She calls him Lord, when she's lying on his bed, on silken sheets that cool her heated skin, his face buried between her thighs, his tongue a forbidden pleasure on her most sensitive spot when he licks and bites and really feasts on her, sucks at her clit and her lips, drags his teeth over her flesh and she tosses, rears up, digs her fingers at his scalp, presses him closer and her mind is blank besides Tom, Tom, Tom.

_(she screams his name and she feels like a heretic, not a saint)_

* * *

**ii.**

She calls him Mr. T., in letters they write each other, in arguments with her friends, never lifting the veil of ignorance when they speak about Horcruxes and the Deathly Hallows, never revealing the truth that lies beneath the acronym, the true identity behind a single letter that covers so much and she needs to keep it a secret, thinks it sounds boastful that she doesn't want to expose him and her head screams he's mine, you can't have him, leave him, leave me, he's mine, Tom, Tom, Tom.

_(it's utterly selfish, it's utterly apostatising)_

* * *

**iii.**

She calls him Riddle, in rows and fights which neither of them should win at all, but they claw and shout and spit venom of their tongues, throw glasses into the fire until his fingers press into her delicate wrist, pulls her closer until her breasts touch his chest and he grips at her chin, forces her to look in his eyes and a second later he bites at her lips, gnaws until she tastes blood again and she returns the kiss with force, with passion and everything goes dark besides Tom, Tom, Tom.

_(his name falls of her lips like heresy and she disposes of her pride and gives her wrists over to his kisses)_

* * *

**iv.**

She calls him Tom, in private, when they lie in tangled sheets side by side, her head on his shoulder while his fingers draw imaginary symbols on her flesh, ghost over the sensitive skin on her back, raises goosebumps on her skin while his deep baritone voice recites old spells she never heard before, teaches her long forgotten tongues and tales and everything appears to be more beautiful because they're doomed, so she closes her eyes, ignores the nagging voice in her head telling her that this feels like blasphemy, desecration, betrayal, takes a breath and sleeps.

_(her dreams are about Tom, Tom, Tom all the time)_


	20. 5 Prompts Exchange - Distress

**Distress**

**Challenge:** 5 Prompts Exchange

**Rating:** T

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 193

**A/N: **/

No one said it'd be easy, the passion, fingers clawing their way right through the delicate layer of skin, your back, your shoulders, arms, the blood, both drawing, soaking skins, moistening it, bathing, the hate that we're facing now, both of us, you, me, we, obsessive, incessant, maddening hunger, our mistakes already anchored to our genes, while you thought I was your jackpot, the golden ticket, blind faith, over reliance while spitting venom, teeth gracing our pulses, spicing up our tongues, striking out, using our lips as knifes to separate ribcages, no worry about time, both divorced from reality, the horizon bright before our eyes, flying high, crashing down, awaken once more, 60 square meter, fairy-tale castle and jail, in distress each word shapes into storeys and disaster, too cramped, without an earth-wire, ready to fight at anytime, when i finally realised that agony was everything we had left the wounds were already incurable, because we had no clue how to release ourselves from sorrow and frustration, we were lonely, never alone, our unity had fallen.

_(has the start been the end? have we been dazzled? did we waste our time?)_


	21. 5 Prompts Exchange - Persephone

**Persephone**

**Challenge:** 5 Prompts Exchange

**Rating:** M

**Warnings/Tags:** /

**Word count:** 337

**A/N: **/

* * *

He watches her dancing on a summer meadow, picking lilies one by one while her lips reflect bright red, sun rays refracting on the golden jewellery around her neck, the gilded bracelet around a thin delicate wrist, drops of crystals in honey-brown locks, an untamed mane which graces her head like a goddess, a halo, the epitome of mythical youth while butterflies flutter softly around her ankles, rest on her white high fashion dress, her laughter clear and open, a soft lullaby on spring afternoons and his eyes follow her every movement while Greyback waits in the shadows, a loyal blood hound waiting for the winter, for their return to the realm of the dead, their home, his throne, his empire, where Thanatos and Hypnos would be waiting, Bellatrix and Abraxas, the Death and the Sleep, his loyal servants, and everything was wrapped in darkness for him, saw death and the approach of death and he would soil his hands with innocent blood soon enough again, the red liquid that clings to his pores and flesh, moistens it until she comes and takes his hands in hers, rubs down the gore, rinses them until they're clean again, clean and soft and he'll dig his fingers in her hair, yank her head back to kiss her red swollen lips, taste pomegranates on her tongue, a sweet red honey that makes him delirious and mad and he'll ravish her mouth, her lips, her skin, will tear at the wild crest she calls her hair, leaves bite marks and bruises, which are the same, and she moans, prays, and it's his name again, again, again - he blinks, just a second and she's dancing in the spring sun again, sun rays illuminating her body that shimmers golden with lips as red as pomegranates whispering his name in the wind.

_(once people asked her when a monster would not be a monster, and she answered with pomegranates in her hand, eating seeds one by one, whispering darkly, „when you love it")_


End file.
